


The Be and End All

by Ingu



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Consequences, Friends With Benefits, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Requited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:24:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingu/pseuds/Ingu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya has heard the stories, been taught the tales since his childhood. He has been warned of the degenerates who will entice and corrupt unsuspecting young men toward irredeemable sin, who will go against nature and turn their lust against their own people, those without morals or care for the innocents they will one day destroy.</p><p>He is trained to see the signs, to heed the warnings before its too late and he is swallowed whole. Illya is someone who knows better than most, and when he first steps out into the world after a childhood built on perseverance, he thinks he is prepared. He will never fall victim.</p><p>But then, he meets Napoleon Solo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Be and End All

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to [This Love (Will Be Your Downfall)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Voctl_nw7cM) and then this happened. Un-betaed, all mistakes remain mine.

Illya has heard the stories, been taught the tales since his childhood. He has been warned of the degenerates who will entice and corrupt unsuspecting young men toward irredeemable sin, who will go against nature and turn their lust against their own people, those without morals or care for the innocents they will one day destroy.

He is trained to see the signs, to heed the warnings before its too late and he is swallowed whole. Illya is someone who knows better than most, and when he first steps out into the world after a childhood built on perseverance, he thinks he is prepared. He will never fall victim.

But then, he meets Napoleon Solo.

 

-

 

The danger in the American, Illya thinks, is that he lives without morals.

Napoleon walks through life with a swagger and too much charisma to spare, taking unnecessary risks like he’s daring the world to bet against his luck. He smiles and charms his way through every situation big and small. Whether it’s a finger pointed in his direction or the barrel of a gun, Napoleon Solo takes all of it in stride, and somehow always comes out on top.

The man embodies the evils of capitalism in all his habits and vices. Be it food, frills, or the company he keeps, Napoleon always demands the best of any situation. His handsome looks and heart-stopping smile has the power to bend women’s wills and lure them into his bed. And he cares little for the hearts he breaks and even less for the price UNCLE pays for his indulgence. Cowboy is wicked, and selfish, and thoroughly incorrigible even on the best of days.

He is also the most confusing and alluring creature Illya has ever known.

 

-

 

Illya doesn’t mean to kiss him. He doesn’t. But Napoleon’s heart stops and when Illya finally starts it back up again the impulse is so strong he doesn’t think to resist it. He stops thinking at all until it is too late. Napoleon’s hand is in his hair, he’s kissing him back, and Illya is pulling away in a panic.

When Illya dares to look, Napoleon’s eyes are wide and ecstatic. He meets Illya’s gaze with a look that is an expectation, and unwitting, Illya falls into the blue in those eyes. His heart pounds in his throat, and he waits for the guilt to appear, the self-loathing that comes with the fact that he has just learned something he should have died without knowing.

Rain falls around them. There are drops of water caught on Napoleon’s lashes, and at the tip of his nose. The guilt doesn’t come, and all Illya wants to do is to kiss him again.

So he moves forward, and tastes those lips a second time.

He doesn’t expect the joy, the breathless feeling that yes, this is right, this is something he should have done long ago. Napoleon is laughing, and Illya can’t help joining in too.

 

-

 

When they fall into bed, it’s almost an afterthought. Illya is still high, dizzy with the thrill of survival, and it is the most natural thing in the world to allow Napoleon to push him against the wall, press their bodies together, and catch Illya’s lips in one aggressive, demanding kiss. Slowly, methodically, Illya is stripped of every piece of soaked through clothing. And Illya, burning hot despite the freezing cold, can only think to do the same to Napoleon.

He lets Napoleon press him into the bed, and he can’t help the stutter in his breath when Napoleon's lips move to his neck, and then downward, taking the time to taste and savor every inch of skin that is discovered. Then, later, he bites back his cries as Napoleon rocks into him, each precise stroke sending bursts of pleasure along every nerve.

During, he never wants it to end, thinks this should be how things are forever if this is how good it feels.

After, Illya is sprawled under the covers, sleepy and sated, knowing it will be perfect if Napoleon comes close and tucks himself beside him. But Napoleon only presses a soft kiss against Illya’s shoulder, and then he is climbing off the bed, reaching for his clothes. The clink of a belt buckle sounds at the fringes of Illya’s consciousness.

It’s not perfect, but Illya falls asleep thinking it’s enough.

 

-

 

He has no reason to be surprised when Napoleon brings a woman back to the hotel two nights later. But Illya doesn’t expect the glimpse of red hair and the ringing of shy giggles as he enters the lobby. When the elevator door slides closed, Illya catches sight of Napoleon’s familiar grin, and that shock of dark hair he had grasped in his hand not so long ago. It feels as though all the air is sucked out of the room.

In that moment, Illya’s world snaps into perspective, and he makes perfect sense of what they are, and what they will become.

Illya goes to his room, because he’s not sure where else would be safe, and he presses himself into the nearest corner. Then, he closes his eyes and counts his breaths. In his mind, the room is being torn apart at his hands.

He stays there, in his imagined world, until he stands alone amidst the wreckage, and all that remains of the furniture and the decor are broken splinters and shattered fragments. The chairs are smashed into unrecognizable pieces, the television and radio crushed beneath the force of Illya’s violence, and white pieces of stuffing are drifting in the air. Illya remains, in his safe space, until his breathing evens out, and the trembling in his hands subside.

He opens his eyes. The room is still whole, and he thinks he’ll be okay. Illya is not a woman whose virtue is to be protected. Napoleon doesn’t owe him anything.

It is better this way.

 

-

 

“I want to try something,” Napoleon says one day, watching Illya with mischief in his eyes, “What do you say, tovarisch? Up for some experimentation?”

“That depends,” Illya replies drily. He has no intention of signing up for anything he doesn’t know the details of.

A competition is what Napoleon proposes, a test, to determine who is the better spy.

“Seduction is one of the critical elements of a spy’s skillset,” Napoleon says, when he is winding one of Illya’s very few and very precious ties around his eyes. “Counter-seduction, in turn, is very important. You don’t want your tongue to loosen after an intimate encounter, now do you?”

Illya wants to defend himself, wants to say that there won’t be any intimate encounters, because Napoleon takes them all for himself. But then Napoleon is undoing Illya’s buttons, and his thoughts turn toward encouragement. Because why not? Illya knows he is good. This time, he can show Napoleon just how much better he is.

“Your mission, Illya,” Napoleon leans in, his voice barely a whisper, “Is to resist.”

His breath is hot against Illya’s skin, and already, it is harder to breathe. As Napoleon’s mouth gets to work, Illya comes to comprehend just how little he knows when it comes to all the ways one can give another person pleasure. With barely more than touch, Napoleon brings Illya to the brink, again, and again, delighting in being the sole cause of Illya losing all semblance of control.

Later, after his breathing finally evens out, and the heaviness in his limbs disappears a little, Illya reaches for the discarded tie and goes to tie it around Napoleon. Alarmed, Cowboy shifts away, staring at him in confusion.

“It’s my turn now, is it not?” Illya says.

Napoleon’s eyes slip closed, and he groans, but it comes out as a whine. Illya smiles, and then makes sure to show Cowboy just how much he has learned.

 

-

 

The third time Napoleon brings a woman back to his room, Illya takes apart every one of his guns, and carefully cleans each and every piece.

Distractions are sometimes necessary in their line of work. His responsibilities require him to endure and perform in situations that will, if he’s lucky, only become the nightmares that keep him awake at night. Illya takes apart his guns and plays one of Gaby’s favorite records in the background to drown out any noise that slips through the walls. He familiarizes himself, again, with each piece of metal that is useless when apart yet lethal when combined.

Napoleon doesn’t think Illya notices. Or perhaps he knows but doesn’t think Illya cares. Or, most likely, Napoleon has become so used to lying to others, he’s come to deceive even himself.

But the question of what Illya feels is ultimately inconsequential. He knows he shouldn’t care, that Napoleon doesn’t expect him to care, that what they do is not something meant to be spoken of. So Illya finds the distraction he needs, and filters out with practiced ease the thoughts and feelings shouting at the back of his mind. The overheard cries of two people’s pleasure are given the same treatment as the pleas of an enemy begging for a different sort of deliverance.

Illya dismantles his weapons, cleans them of contamination, and puts them back together when the sounds stop.

 

-

 

A week later, Napoleon loses another game of chess.

Napoleon is several drinks in and on the wrong side of tipsy. Illya stays sober, because there is still a mission to complete. When Illya moves his bishop to D6, locking Napoleon into checkmate, Napoleon regards the board with an expression somewhere between a pout and a moue.

Then, he looks up at Illya with a glint in his eyes, rises, and steps around the table.

Napoleon’s movements are controlled and purposeful. In that moment, Illya sees a predator stalking its prey. Then, there are hands upon his shoulders, and Illya is being pushed back into his chair. Napoleon, with a level of grace he shouldn’t still possess, swings one leg over his knees, and settles on Illya’s lap.

“Now that you’ve won.” Napoleon’s voice is a low rumble, the purr of a delighted feline, and his eyes are an enrapturing shade of blue Illya can’t look away from. “Would you like to claim your prize?”

He shouldn’t. But then, Napoleon leans forward and captures Illya’s lips in a hungry kiss, and Illya can’t remember why. That night, he ruins Napoleon’s silk tie, using it to bind his hands to the rungs of the bed frame, and he takes him roughly, savoring in every breathless whimper that escapes Napoleon’s lips. A trail of marks are left behind, imprints against Napoleon’s skin, reminding anyone who will come after that this charming, conniving man already belongs to another.

Napoleon calls it Illya’s reward for his victory. Illya calls it Napoleon’s punishment for his hubris.

That night, Illya meticulously takes Napoleon apart. In the morning, he lies in bed and watches as Napoleon picks up his clothes, and pieces himself back together.

 

-

 

The seventh time Napoleon disappears with an attractive stranger, Illya is in the company of one of his own.

He’s far from inexperienced when it comes to pleasuring women, and he finds these experiences pleasant enough as a form of stress relief. But Illya doesn’t quite understand just what it is about these foreign bodies that is so addictive to Napoleon.

Illya gives her pleasure, and takes some of his own in return. The woman is impressed with his height and his good looks, Illya thinks. Or perhaps there is something about his accent that is just dangerous enough to her ears to be enchanting. If he were shorter, or uglier, or American, she would not have followed him to bed tonight.

So perhaps there is also something about him, Illya supposes, that has Napoleon coming back again and again for more. A different sort of pull that earns Illya his share of interest from women like the one in his bed right now, and like Gaby back when he was still mysterious enough to be an object of fascination.

He wonders how long it will take for Napoleon’s interest to also run out. If it ever will, or if they have become too wrapped up in each other to go back to what they were before. With every day that passes, with every lingering look and burning touch, he’s more and more convinced of the latter.

The woman leaves, and it’s Napoleon who stays on Illya’s mind.

 

-

 

“Hypothetically speaking,” Napoleon says, with hesitance in his voice that is always present when he is about to suggest something offensive or stupid. “What would you do if you ever stopped working for the KGB?”

Stupid, then, is the order of the day.

“That is a stupid question,” Illya says. “I would die first.”

“You’d die rather than stop working as a spy?” There is disbelief, and no small amount of pity.

Illya’s jaw tightens, he’s been imprecise. “The job will kill me.”

“That’s a rather dark way of looking at things,” Napoleon says. “Then humor me. If, following twenty-five years of _exemplary_ service, you are released from the KGB, what would you do?”

Illya sighs, there is no use thinking of things that will never happen. But Napoleon looks at him with those curious blue eyes, and Illya’s frustration melts into something softer.

His expression must change, because Napoleon’s eyes brighten, and he leans close.

“Well,” Illya says, and then he pauses, because this has always been one of the things he is supposed to never think about.

“Well?”

“I would get a house. And a dog.” Illya stares into space, thoughtful, wondering for the first time what it would be like. “восточно-европейская овчарка. East-European Shepherd.”

“That’s it?” Napoleon says, his voice flat. “A house and a dog?”

What more does Napoleon want from him? Illya frowns, and thinks harder.

“Maybe… someone I love,” he continues, tentative. “If they want to stay with me.”

Napoleon is silent, for so long Illya looks over at him in slight concern. Napoleon is staring at nothing, his expression blank. Then he swallows, and looks at Illya. Illya doesn’t know how to describe what he sees.

“You’re kind of adorable, you know that?” Blink, and the normal Napoleon is back, more flippant than ever. He moves closer, and Illya leans back, dissatisfaction settling in his expression.

“I am not adorable,” Illya says. Words like adorable are reserved for dogs and puppies. Illya is neither.

“Except you really are,” Napoleon says, and he’s grinning when their lips meet in a kiss.

 

-

 

Illya does not care, and yet he wants. He wants to wake up and find Napoleon there beside him, wants to take his hand when he feels like it and kiss him when the urge strikes. Illya wants Napoleon to treat him like he is the center of the world. It is childish. It is unreasonable. But still, Illya wants. Then, he hates himself for wanting something he knows he will never have.

“You know, Peril,” Napoleon says one night, when he’s had too many glasses of whiskey to remember his words in the morning, “I don’t think I know how.”

How to stop going to bed with strangers? How to love someone? Illya is not sure what Napoleon is referring to, but he can guess. Unlike Napoleon, Illya is sober, because there is still a mission to complete. By now, Illya knows that for the American, bedding women is a compulsion, an addiction he can’t and won’t shake simply for the sake of a too-tall Russian. By now, he knows that it’s not something he should take personally.

“I think I’m…” Napoleon murmurs, distraught, and he stares at Illya, pupils blown wide. “What do I do?”

Illya knows what he wants to read into the words unspoken, but Napoleon doesn’t say it, so Illya will never be certain. He sits at the foot of the couch Napoleon is stretched out on, watching, waiting.

“Don’t go,” Napoleon whispers, so that’s where Illya stays, and where he falls asleep, his head resting against Napoleon’s hand.

 

-

 

Eventually, Illya loses count.

Napoleon continues to bring back women, and sometimes, even men. When it happens, Illya acts as though he is invisible. He cleans his weapons, he finds Gaby, or a book, or plays endless games of chess against himself which he will lose the moment he wins.

Each time, days, sometimes hours later, Napoleon will turn up at Illya’s door with that same urgent look in his eyes. Illya will let him in, and then, he will go about reclaiming a body that will never be his.

It becomes familiar, it becomes expected, it becomes normal.

 

-

 

People working in his field are rarely afforded the luxury of a comfortable death. A bullet to the head or something as equally quick and painless is his preferred way to go. But more often, there is interrogation, torture, and the gradual descent into despair. He’s seen photos documenting the outcome of belated rescues, and heard the stories of agents who go missing and are never found or found in pieces. It is the reason why there are times Illya will find himself thinking that – if he dies in this moment, he will be okay.

But there are always people who disagree. Usually, for Illya, it’s Cowboy.

“Stay awake.”

Napoleon slaps Illya’s face, not with too much force, but enough to make Illya’s eyes snap open in annoyance.

“I am.” Illya grumbles, blinking.

The cell is dark, and they’re tucked together into the warmest corner. Cooperation is not their strong point, even when their captors are using them against each other. There had been knives, and when Napoleon’s impertinence finally broke their interrogator’s patience, one was buried deep into Illya’s gut. When they were tossed back into their cell, Napoleon had forcibly treated Illya’s wound with a makeshift bandage ripped from his own shirt. Then, he had grabbed Illya's shoulders and pulled him into his arms, proceeding to talk Illya's ear off about anything and everything under the sun.

Illya now has an entire arsenal of new knowledge. Among many, many other things he is already forgetting, Illya has heard the way to make a perfect risotto, a list of every bad idea Solo’s army squad has ever had, tips on how to steal paintings from a museum, as well as more art history than he has ever needed to know. It is quite impressive, the amount of useless things Cowboy can fit into one long, rambling spiel.

“Good,” Napoleon says roughly. By now, his voice is gone.

The pain comes and goes in waves, and in this moment, Illya feels mostly okay. He focuses on the steady rhythm of Napoleon’s heartbeat, racing too fast for someone who’s spent at least an hour sitting at rest.

“You’re scared,” Illya murmurs. The world is already very dark, and it is growing darker still.

For a moment, there is no reply.

“Gaby will kill me if I let you die here.”

Illya’s eyes open again. He only closed them for a moment. “You’ll watch out for her, yes?”

Napoleon inhales, his breathing ragged. The arm around him tightens. “You’re not dying, Illya.”

“It’s not so bad.” He’d never expected Napoleon’s arms to feel so nice, looped around him like this. It’s gotten so cold, but Napoleon is warm. There are worse ways to die.

“I didn’t know the KGB’s best gave up so easily,” Napoleon says. “Perhaps they should reexamine their rankings.”

“I would still be the best UNCLE has to offer,” Illya mutters, his breath hitching on the last word. The pain returns, trickling at first, and then, it swells forward, blinding his senses. He chokes on air, only dimly aware of fingers carding through his hair, whispered assurances at his ear, a kiss pressed against his temple. He will be alright, the voice promises over the sound of pitiful whimpers, it will be okay.

The pain crests, and Illya calms during the gradual descent. The fingers never stop stroking his hair, and Napoleon’s arms are tighter around him than they have ever been before.

“This isn’t your fault,” Illya whispers, when he finds his voice again. Above him, Napoleon stifles something that sounds terrifyingly like a sob.

 

-

 

The third time Illya wakes up, Napoleon is still holding onto his hand. It’s pleasant, but not a risk either of them should be taking. The bed is soft, and there are drugs in his system blocking out the worst of the pain. He’ll be recovered in a month or two, the doctors say.

“Do you mind, Cowboy?” Illya says, looking to their linked hands, and then back at Napoleon.

“No,” Napoleon replies stiffly, and squeezes Illya’s hand tighter.

Illya lets out a breath, and lets himself enjoy the feeling for a short moment.

“People will notice.” Illya tries again. Only then does Napoleon reluctantly withdraw his hands.

Beside his bed, the hospital monitor beeps softly in time with his heartbeat.

“I know you don’t…” Napoleon falters. For once, Cowboy seems to have run out of words, or perhaps it is courage he is low on. “I…”

The silence stretches for too long, and Illya has to end it.

“Me too,” he offers, reckless. He doesn’t know what Napoleon wants to tell him. The relief in Napoleon’s eyes is so powerful, Illya wonders if he should have asked.

 

-

 

Napoleon hands him a piece of jewelry in Bristol.

“What is this?” Illya asks, staring at the small piece of metal.

“It’s a signet ring, like mine.”

Illya stares at Napoleon, wondering if he’s gone insane. Napoleon just stands there and smiles at him, looking about as innocent as a cat with cream on its whiskers.

“What do I do with this?”

“Uh…” Napoleon stares at the ring. For the first time in a long time, he starts to look uncomfortable. “You can hold onto it?” He blinks. “For me.” He continues, missing all of his usual smooth charm. “Just for a while.”

 _You don’t owe me anything_ , Illya thinks. The ring feels heavy in his hand. Illya doesn’t know if he wants it. In his heart, he is certain that this is something else that will never live up to its promise, even if Napoleon is not the cause for whatever disappointment that is to come. But that look is back in Napoleon’s eyes, the same he had when he chose friendship over patriotism so long ago in Rome. Illya can predict the consequences of saying no, can imagine steel shuttering over every trace of affection in Napoleon’s eyes, and his resolve wavers.

“Fine,” Illya says, slipping the ring into his breast pocket. “I will keep it.”

Napoleon doesn’t quite beam, but Illya has no better word for his reaction.

“For now.” Illya clarifies, anxious.

Napoleon only smiles harder.

 

-

 

There are two guns pointed at Napoleon’s head. Behind the men holding them sits a mission critical package that Illya has a direct order to retrieve for the Socialist Republic. Another man has his weapon pointed at Illya himself, but that part is inconsequential. The king is in check from two directions, and Illya has only one shot left.

If he takes this situation and recreates it for the chessboard, then they are already standing at checkmate. No matter which piece he takes out, the remaining henchman will force the game's conclusion with a single, unpreventable bullet to Napoleon’s head.

But this is real life, and so Illya cheats by pointing his gun past the pieces and toward the prize – the last remaining miniature prototype of an experimental explosive. If reverse engineered and reproduced on a massive scale, it will shift the balance of the Arms Race, and allow his country to pull ahead of the Americans.

If destroyed, it will sweep every piece off the board, and take out everyone who is a threat to Napoleon’s life.

No decision has ever been this easy to make.

 

-

 

Afterwards, when they’re stumbling together into the safehouse, bruised, bloody, but alive, Napoleon wraps a hand around Illya’s arm and shoves him against the wall. Then, he is pressing forward and kissing Illya, long and hard.

It is Illya’s favorite of all the ways Napoleon likes to show his gratitude.

“How many times is that now?” Napoleon growls against Illya’s lips, hunger in his eyes as his hands rise and begin to remove pieces of Illya’s outfit. The guns go first, and then the knives, and his belts. “Your loyalties are becoming very questionable, tovarisch.”

Here is another scene that keeps on repeating, because Illya can never bring himself to sacrifice Napoleon for the sake of his country. This makes him a bad spy, and every affirmation inspires Napoleon to reward him in raw, unsophisticated ways.

Even if there are some words that are never said aloud between them, the truth is still there, visible behind both action and omission. As eager and fervent the beginning of each encounter is, it takes only minutes before the urgency rescinds into something tender, something delicate, but still with no less passion. When Illya is alone with Napoleon, both of them reduced to skin and heat and desire, he feels the thrill of worship. Napoleon treats him with fervor, with reverence, with unbridled need Illya knows his conquests will never witness. Illya sees the truth drowning beneath the deep blue of Napoleon’s eyes, drawn with every tremor of Napoleon’s hands, and in the every breathless sound that escapes his lips. It is a terror that comes only with epiphany, with understanding of an all-consuming power that cannot be overcome.

There is a word for a feeling like this, but it is one Illya never says.

It is fair, because it is also a word he never hears.

 

-

 

The woman Napoleon beds in Amsterdam is tall and blonde. Illya wants to read something into the fact, but this far north, where even Illya is comfortably blending in, his conclusion feels like too much of a stretch to be of any significance. Indeed, three days later, Napoleon brings back a woman closer to Gaby in appearance and stature. Any point Illya might have made becomes moot.

That evening, he catalogues their equipment while Gaby tests his cover by quizzing him on veterinary science. He finishes his task, and Gaby is still not satisfied, continuing to throw out increasingly obscure questions. Illya answers each one with ease.

“And what do you call the bone that connects a bird’s wings to its spine?”

“That would be the Antivardum Nobulae,” says Illya.

Silence.

“How long have you been making up answers?”

“Since about fifteen minutes ago.”

Gaby shoots up from the couch, brows furrowed in outrage. “What did Napoleon do to you? You’re supposed to be bad at lying.”

Illya almost laughs. He’s still trying to figure that out himself.

 

-

 

They call him back for a routine report, and Illya knows it’s a fair request for the KGB’s best agent to at least show his face in the office again after months spent away. When Waverly passes him the request, Illya is almost relieved. The thought of seeing Napoleon’s face again sends tendrils of fear crawling through his veins, and each time he imagines the weight of what is there behind those eyes, his throat closes with panic. The ring is burning a hole in his pocket. Leaving will be good, he thinks. This is bad for them both, even if Napoleon doesn’t want to see it. Illya will be able to clear his head, and perhaps then, he won’t fall so easily back into Cowboy’s bed.

His plane touches down in Moscow. It’s not until he is back on home soil, with the familiar sound of his mother tongue sounding around him, that he realizes how much he has missed the feeling of belonging. The great Socialist Union may not be much in the eyes of the Americans, but to Illya, it is home. As much cruelty and hardship they endure, the people work together to make the most of their existence.

Along the way, the car passes children playing in the street, their red scarves fluttering as they run and chase each other. Young lovers, too shy to hold hands, walk close enough to feel each other’s warmth. A mother holds her child in her arms, the father carrying bags of rationed foods only recently exchanged for at the grocery.

Oleg’s office remains unchanged since the last time Illya has been here, eight long months ago. His superior is smoking, as usual, and the entire room stinks of stale cigarettes and dust.

“We have a lot to talk about, Kuryakin,” Oleg says, when Illya is before him, standing at attention. “For a start, there is the matter of what you did in Rome.”

Oleg lists events, actions, omissions, facts he could not have known without an internal leak within UNCLE. For a wild moment, Illya wonders if Waverly is the one who turned him in. But no, the man would never do a thing like this.

“Finally, about two weeks ago, you chose to destroy an objective you were ordered to retrieve. To save an American, if I am correct.”

Illya stands, listens, and breathes.

This is what has been coming, ever since he held onto his father’s watch instead of shooting Cowboy between the eyes like he was meant to. He had known the risk, understood better than anyone the cost of betrayal. But Napoleon had watched him with such hesitance in his eyes, with such uncertainty. And the thought of betraying the American with those anxious blue eyes became infinitely more painful than the thought of betraying the country he had sworn to defend.

“Do you deny any of this, comrade?” says Oleg.

“No.”

“Good.” In Oleg’s eyes, there’s a glimmer of approval, the same that Illya had once lived for. Even now, it sparks a pleasant feeling deep inside of him. Illya may no longer be loyal to Mother Russia, but he understands responsibility, and that which he still owes.

“I believe you understand the consequences of treason.”

This is okay, Illya thinks. His mother is gone, and his father also. There is no one else who will be punished for his choices. Gaby will be okay, and so will Napoleon, eventually. Perhaps Cowboy will even feel relief, now there is no one around to inspire guilt after each one of his dalliances. This is fair, a deserving end for a boy who lived for so long under his parents’ shame he grew to adopt it as his own.

It is a miracle they ever lasted this long.

Illya knows what he should feel. Yet the familiar white-hot rage does not surge forward. His hands are steady and cold. He looks up into Oleg’s eyes, and finds no sympathy there waiting for him.

He is tired, so tired.

“You’re not going back, Kuryakin.”

**Author's Note:**

> Russian SFSR Penal Code  
> Article 58-1б. Treason by military personnel: death sentence with property confiscation.


End file.
